


War Took It All, Gave It Back

by warmommy



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Widowed Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: The reader is a war widow who signed up with Utivich. Within days of meeting Hugo Stiglitz, he becomes the first man you ever slept with since Aksel’s death, and he cannot fucking figure out why people don’t know they’re not allowed to touch you. Smut.





	War Took It All, Gave It Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

It was after Aksel died that you enlisted. It wasn’t a fellow German that had killed him, but some ‘heil Hitler’ son of a bitch supporter from your very own borough. Shot him, right in the light of day, as he left the temple where you had converted to Judaism and married him. The sky turned dark over Manhattan, and you were washing dishes when you got the phone call. It wasn’t the police, but a shaken, soft-spoken witness.

_“Mrs. Gold?”_

You only knew Smithson Utivich in passing before, but he was the one who held your hand at your husband’s funeral, your own family having disowned you after your ‘abandonment of Christ’. He sat with you that whole night, a carton of cigarettes and two bottles of booze between you on the table.

“Let’s go,” you’d said to him. He’d gazed up at you with those soft blue eyes, questioning. “Let’s go and kill them all.”

Aksel had been the One. It was more than worth losing everything that you did when you married a German Jewish immigrant. It was more than worth risking your life every day to avenge his death and the Machine that had caused it. You even had Utivich with you, and a crew of heroes you worked alongside every day. They became your friends, your family. Aldo was even sort of like a dad. A deranged, snuffing, wise dad.

Within days of meeting him, Hugo Stiglitz became the first man you’d ever slept with since the assassination of your husband. After a few days of saying very little to anyone, you were on watch and he came up to keep you company. No, more than that, he was fucking affable. He told self-deprecating jokes, asked you to catch him up on everything that had gone on while he was imprisoned, made the stories of murdering Gestapo majors  _hilarious_ , and he wasn’t trying to get into your pants, but he did. In a big way. 

His dick was bigger than you’d ever seen and uncircumcised and he was  _fantastic._ Shooting stars behind your eyes fantastic. Woke up Hirschberg fantastic. Repeat performance fantastic. 

After that, at least every few days you managed to steal some time to learn more things that you’d ever had the chance to in your short-lived marriage. Hugo was more than happy to teach, and more patient than you would have expected. He knew little about your personal life and you knew little about his, but one thing you  _did_  discover rather early on was how very enthusiastic he got when you begged for more in German. 

Hugo hadn’t realised that you could speak his native language, and, when he later asked, he expressed his condolences for the loss of Aksel and pushed no further. He didn’t treat you like the poor widow like many others had. He didn’t treat you like you were any less desirable. 

* * *

“Betthäschen.” Hugo shook you awake. “I’m switching with Wicki, let’s go.”

The sex was spectacular enough that he knew he could get you awake if he could get away with you, that the person taking over for him decidedly would not notice. Your steps were slow, careful, deliberate, but, the further away from sleeping forms, the faster and harder your boots crunched over fallen leaves, pine needles, snapping dry twigs. You turned, breathless, and there he was, his fingers threading through your hair. 

“Ich wollte nie, dass mich jemand so sehr fickt,” you whispered, your lips on his.

“Gut,” he muttered, pulling your breast from your shirt and bending his neck to place kisses there, “wer es schafft, mich aus dir herauszuholen, wird zum König von England gekrönt.”

After working through the translation, you laughed softly. “You’re fucking terrible.”

“But not so terrible at fucking,” he returned. “Betthäschen, on your hands and knees.”

Pebbles dug into your skin, and Hugo was driving into you so hard that one of your fists slid in the soft dirt, canting you forward. 

While you did your best to mute yourself from any carrying vocalisations, behind you, your lover spoke in broken sentences, nonsense words, and, the closer he got, the same impassioned and frenzied things you were used to by now.  _“I will kill_ anyone _that looks at you the way I look at you.”_

* * *

It just so happened that another of your teammates spoke German and understood very well what Hugo was saying to you in plain earshot and sight of everyone. Wicki gave you a funny, if bemused, look the first time, but you just smiled, winked, and went along with your day. No one was being harmed, you weren’t doing anything wrong, and it wasn’t much his business.

In his own, awkward sort of way, he flirted, too. He talked to you more often, and asked very cautiously, with respect, about your loss. His dark, muddled green eyes took on a look of grief. His cigarette danced between his fingers, twirled around his thumb. 

“No one that I know of from home was killed. That I  _know_  of,” he said. “He managed to get away from Hitler, but not from Hitler’s sphere. I’m sorry that you lost the one you loved, at such a young age. He was a lucky man, to meet a good Methodist girl willing to give so much for him, even after he was taken.”

The poignancy and sincerity bore their way through your carefully crafted walls of bullshit and anger. You smiled sadly at him, feeling the weight of the world pushing your soul a little further down. “I know I’m not really Jewish–”

“Yes, you are,” Wicki said quickly, forcefully. He cleared his throat, catching himself. “You’re one of ours, a Jewish woman. You would have continued to be a Jewish woman were he alive, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And you still are.” His hand felt heavy and big on your back. “You’re every bit a Jew as me. You chose our faith. I was born into it.”

You hugged him, unable to help yourself. Grappling with being “Jewish enough” had been a battle since Aksel’s death. “Thank you. I mean that.”

“Yeah, me too.” Wicki was a good hugger. Both arms, chest to chest, his head on top of ours, an extra squeeze at the end.

Hugo asked later what had passed between you and the Austrian, but you shook your head, hardly remembering. There were four fresh scalps against your belt. You could hardly remember breakfast.

You tilted your head at him curiously. “You know I’m Jewish?”

He stared at you for a second as if he were waiting for you to go on, then shrugged. “All the Basterds are Jewish, except the Apache. I assumed you were before I knew that you were. I’m not a Nazi, Y/N.”

“No, you’re a Nazi killer. That’s what it was, though, with Wicki. He told me I’m a real Jew, even though I converted for a man who’s dead now.”

“Why did he talk to you about your–Aksel?”

You shrugged. “He’s just a good guy. It helped me.”

Hugo nodded slowly, his fingers plucking a cigarette out of his pack. He held it out to you. “I don’t ask because I thought you would say something if you wanted to.”

Again, you shrugged. “You don’t pry. I don’t either. It’s fine.”

“You can,” he offered.

_“Contact!”_

You barely had time to react before bullets began to spray; Hugo pushed you down to the roots of a great oak and raised his gun.

* * *

Wilhelm Wicki was kissing you. It was a thing that was happening. None of the preceding events would have clued you in on this intention, if it  _was_  intended to happen, but it made your scalp tingle. It was warm and full and captivating and over very quickly, because of the rustle in the hedgerow and the pissed off voice. 

“Step away before I punch you in the face.” 

You stepped away from each other, broke apart, but Hugo was still on him a second later. You saw blood and panicked. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” you shouted. “Stop it! Stop that now–Hugo, lass ihn los!”

“Was zum Teufel glaubst du, was du da tust?” He punched Wicki in his side, around the kidney. “Rühr sie nie wieder an!”

“Hey, hey, it’s all right, it’s no big deal!” You grabbed his arm as it was pulled back. 

“Un-fucking-necessary,” Wicki cried, hand on his jaw. “I didn’t know.”

“Blödsinn!” Hugo shouted, pulling you along with him, he was trying to get to the other man so hard. 

“Wicki–get out of here, get out,” you cautioned, and, wisely, he did. He didn’t run, only lumbered, gazing back every now and then with a stream of blood and curses pouring from the corner of his mouth. 

Hugo finally pulled away from you and milled around so that you were facing each other. “What the  _fuck_?”

“I-It wasn’t  _planned_ ,” you said.

“Of course you’d never betray me,” he dismissed. “It’s a general question, rhetorical.”

“He really didn’t seem to know,” you said quietly. “You really have to stop following me.”

“If anything, that just proved that I should,” he contested. He looked down at his boots, fingers curling, then nodded resolutely and took your hand, leading you back to where most of your friends were drinking coffee and choking their way through C rations. The sight of the angry, angry German gathered attention quickly. “You dumb fucks. How do you  _not_  understand that we’re together?”

“It was an honest fucking mistake,” Wicki grumbled.

Smithson was the next to pipe up, tilting his head at Hugo. “So, you’re willing to convert?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


End file.
